Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S.: A Story of the Great War
Page 8
CHAPTER VIII
'MIDST THE SCENE OF RED RUIN
FIVE minutes before the fall of the first bomb,Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft alighted from a tram-car in themarket square of Barborough.
The stopping of the railway service had upset his calculations, forinstead of the train running into Barborough Station it had come toa stand still at Wolderton, a little town five miles from hisdestination.
"Can't go no further yet awhile, sir," replied a porter in answer tothe flight-sub's enquiry. "They say as 'ow Zeps is about, though Ifancy they won't come to Lancashire, sir. Don't hold wi' these sillyscares mysen."
"Where are we?" asked Barcroft, striving vainly to read the name ofthe unlighted station. "Wolderton, sir; if you're for Barborough youcan get a car just outside. They are runnin', Zep, or no Zep."
The young officer alighted, made his way out of the station andboarded the first northbound car, which in due course deposited himat Barborough--a stranger in a strange land.
"For Tarleigh, sir?" rejoined a policeman to his question. "Mattero' four or six miles. No, sir, you'll not be findin' a taxito-night, I fancy. Just you go along yon road, take first on yourright then straight on till you come to Chumley Old Road. Thereyou'll find a car that'll take you as far as Black Pit Brow, andit'll be forty minutes sharp walking to Tarleigh."
Somewhat bewildered Barcroft set out to follow the constable'sdirections. He found himself slipping on the rough and greasy setts,jostling people in the darkened streets, and barking his shinsagainst obtrusive door steps. The road was a mean and narrow one--ashort cut to a main thoroughfare. A dank unwholesome smell permeatedthe misty air. It struck the young officer as being worse than theatmosphere of the lower deck of a battleship battened down during athree-days' gale.
Suddenly the darkness was rent by a terrific flash. The light was sodazzling that Barcroft was under the impression that it came fromthe centre of the street. Stunned by the deafening crash he felthimself lurching against a wall, amidst a shower of broken glass.
Another explosion followed and then two more. The flight-sub feltthe wall of the house rock with the concussions. He was quiteprepared to see the building collapse under the impact of thedisplaced air. Fragments of slates and tiles, mingled with shatteredwoodwork, hurtled overhead. Glass tinkled upon the setts. The rumbleof falling masonry was added to the uproar, while flames shot upfrom a mound of debris that a brief instant earlier had been thehomes of three English families, and threw a fitful glare upon thescene of destruction.
"Factory explosion, I suppose," thought Barcroft. "Can't be a Zep.,or I should have heard her engines."
He put his hand to his cheek. It was warm and moist. Blood waswelling from a deep gash. He hardly noticed it. His attention wasattracted by the shouts and screams of the terrified inhabitants ofthe neighbourhood--those whose houses having escaped annihilationbut were within the danger zone, had fled pell-mell into thestreets.
Other crashes followed, but at a greater distance.
"Then it is a Zep., by Jove!" declared the young officer. For thefirst time he realised his helplessness. He was virtually one of thethousands of civilians unable to raise a hand in self-defenceagainst the cowardly night-raider. A Tommy in a trench with only arifle--an almost useless weapon against an aircraft of anydescription--has the satisfaction that he is armed. He is willing totake his chance. But here the townsfolk were utterly at a loss todefend themselves, and it was sorry consolation to be told by theauthorities that the inhabitants of raided districts are onlysharing the dangers to which the troops in the trenches are exposed.
"If only I were up aloft with young Kirkwood," thought Barcroft."We'd make the beggars skip out of that gas-bag. Perhaps some day--"
A woman, with her shawl wrapped tightly round her head, camehurrying in the opposite direction to which the stream of terrifiedpeople forced its way.
"Eh!" she exclaimed. "An' I left t'owld mon's supper on t' stove.I'll be fair angry if 'tis spoilt."
It was genuine anxiety. Even in the midst of the scene ofdestruction her thoughts dwelt upon the little cares of everydaydomesticity.
With the sailor's typical eagerness to render aid Barcroft hurrieddown the street. Already the ebb-tide of fugitives was thinning andgiving place to the flood-tide of willing helpers. Here and theremen staggered and groaned, bleeding from serious wounds caused bythe flying fragments of the deadly missiles. Here and there cameothers supporting or carrying victims unable to help themselves--stalwart men, frail women and puny children reduced in the fractionof a second to mangled wrecks.
Pungent, asphyxiating fumes drifted slowly down the narrowthoroughfare, while the glare of the burning buildings threw aneerie light upon the surroundings.
In the street not one panel of glass remained intact. Cast-ironstack-pipes were riddled with holes cut as cleanly as with a drill.Brick walls were perforated like paper; stone-steps--the "scouring"of which is a solemn rite with Lancashire folk--were chipped andsplintered like glass. Doors were burst open as if with asledge-hammer. And this was fifty yards or more from the scene ofthe actual explosion.
Where the first bomb had fallen nothing remained of the house excepta mound of smoking rubbish. The two adjoining buildings were cutaway from top to bottom almost as evenly as if severed by a saw. Inone the roof was exposed on the underside. The slates were still inposition but riddled like a sieve. So violent was the force withwhich the flying fragments were projected upwards that the fragileslates were perforated before they had time to crack or be dislodgedfrom the rafters.
In the house on the other adjoining side the parting wall hadvanished, leaving the remaining walls and flooring practicallyintact. A fire was still burning in the kitchen grate, and on it aniron pot was simmering. In front of the fire were three pairs of"clogs" of varying sizes--the footgear of a family that was nolonger in existence.
It was the same story. The raid from a military point of view was ofno consequence. The munitions factory, in spite of von Loringhoven'sassurances, had been missed--missed handsomely.
The flight-sub did not linger at this particular spot. Human aid wasunavailing as far as those ruined houses were concerned, but on theother side of the street groans and cries of pain told him that hereat least there was work to be done.
Through an open doorway Barcroft dashed. The woodwork of the doorwas in splinters. Part of the floor had vanished. The place was fullof smoke, while gas from a severed pipe was burning furiously.
Grasping a large fragment of paving-stone the flight-sub batteredthe pipe.
"Iron, worse luck," he exclaimed. "Wonder where the meter is?"
He discovered it just above the door. In the absence of a key toturn off the inflammable gas he knocked the lead pipe flat. Theflame began to die down until it gave a fairly safe illumination.
Up the rickety stairs the young officer made his way. With smartingeyes and irritating throat he groped through the stifling smoke,guided by the cries of the injured victims. The room was feeblylighted by a nightlight set in a basin of water. The light flickeredin the breeze that swept in through the glazeless window, while itsintensity was even more diminished by the eddying smoke. Yet it wassufficient to enable Barcroft to take in his surroundings.
The ceiling had fallen. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor,and every object presented a flat, face-upward surface. On the wallswere crude prints hanging at grotesque angles and ripped by flyingfragments. Pieces of broken furniture were everywhere in evidence.
In one corner of the room was a bed. One leg had been torn off,causing it to touch the floor. On the bed was a grey-haired woman,groaning feebly and with her forehead dabbled in blood.
She opened her eyes as Barcroft approached, then raising one handpointed to the side of the bed. There was a cradle that had hithertoescaped his notice, and in it was a baby of but a few months old.Although the old woman could not speak she made it known that therescuer should first save her grandchild.
Even in that scene of desol
ation Barcroft could not bring himself tolift the baby from its cot. Dimly he fancied that he might harm it.He hadn't the faintest notion how to hold an infant of tender years.
Lifting the cot bodily he bore it with its contents down the stairsand out into the night. By this time other rescuers were hard atwork. Two of them seeing the flight-sub issuing from the house cameup to him.
"D'ye want a hand, sir?" they asked.
The uniform imparted an air of authority, and instinctively the menrealised the fact. True the naval rig was foreign to them. For allthey knew Barcroft might be a sanitary inspector or aschool-attendance officer, but his peaked cap and naval blue coatdenoted an official of some sort, and, in cases of this description,the distinction carries weight.
"Yes, there's a woman injured in that house," replied theflight-sub, setting down his burden. One of the men bent over thecradle and drew back the covering. Then he hastily replaced it.
"Might have saved yourself the trouble, sir," he gulped. "Thosebaby-killing swine! If that cursed Zep, should happen to fallanywhere round about and any of the devils are left alive, I bet mylast shilling the women-folk o' Barborough 'ud tear 'em limb fromlimb. An' serve 'em right. Lead on, sir."
Not until the last of the living victims of the outrage had beenremoved from this section of the bombed district did Barcroft andhis willing helpers desist from their arduous labours. Nothing morecould be done until daybreak. Police guarded the approaches to thedevastated street, while firemen stood by, ready at the first signto tackle a fresh outburst from the still smouldering ruins.
"Suppose I ought to try for an hotel," soliloquised the flight-sub."I don't know. I'm in a horrible mess. Feel like a dustman or ascavenger. Perhaps I'd better carry on. The governor might be a bitanxious if I don't."
Receiving fresh directions Barcroft stepped out briskly. Taxis andeven tramcars were now out of the question.
"Most confusing place I've struck for many a day," he muttered. "Ifeel completely out of my bearings. I'm supposed to be going north;it's my belief I'm making in a southerly direction."
Vainly he looked aloft to "verify his position by stellarobservation." Not a star was visible. He was now clear of the town.The road ran steeply up a bleak hillside and was bounded by roughstone walls. Doubtless there were plenty of houses scattered aboutin the surrounding valleys, but these were not in evidence. Everylight still burning had been carefully screened. It was a case ofshutting the stable door after the horse had been stolen.
Presently he reached the junction of two fork roads, either of whichmight lead to Tarleigh. A tantalising sign-post afforded noinformation, for upon swarming up the post the flight-sub was unableto read the weather-beaten directions.
"What on earth possessed the pater to hang out in this benightedspot I cannot imagine!" exclaimed Barcroft disgustedly. "Suppose Imust wait here in the hope that some one will be passing this way.It seems the safest chance."